To Walk in Myth
by Windrunner32
Summary: The shadow of Galbatorix no longer looms over Alagaësia, but now darker threats stalk the land. Roran Stronghammer leads his armies against this danger while new heroes rise, and powers older than the Riders themselves rear their heads and take sides. In times like these the line blurs into nonexistence between man, and myth.
1. Chapter 1 -- Battlefield

**To Walk in Myth**

Chapter 1

 _Battlefield_

The stench of war hung in the air like a thick fog, flooding Roran's nostrils and waking the dragon in his chest, the dark creature that yearned for blood. Roran snorted, shaking his head, turning such thoughts from his mind. This was no war. Compared to the battles he fought for the Varden, this was hardly a skirmish. And nonetheless, he wouldn't be doing any of the killing himself. He was no longer a simple soldier after all. If everything went well, he wouldn't even need the hammer that hung at his waist. Even so, he absentmindedly loosened it at his belt as he surveyed the rolling grassland in front of him, that was about to become a battlefield.

"Our scouts have identified all five of the rogue magicians in the enemy's ranks my lord." A wizened scribe pronounced from beside him. Roran grunted in response. He didn't like dealing with scribes, but as Nasuada's representative, Maethir had insisted on coming to the battle, if only to flee should their line falter and his life fall into danger.

"Five magicians to our three." Roran grumbled darkly. "I'd prefer to take them out separately, when we have the advantage."

"We have the advantage in men sir. They have one thousand to our one thousand and two hundred. And their men are farmers, vagabonds and opportunists, not fighters." Said Dak to his right. Dak was a warrior, a man of Roran's own kind.

He stroked his rough beard as he watched the rebels shuffling in their ranks in the distance. With another grunt Roran gave the order to attack. No sense in waiting for his men to grow stiff of limb waiting for his command. The soldiers surged forward, closing the distance toward the enemy ranks. Archers would do no good against these rebels, they were warded, and had entrenched themselves on a hilltop. _Bloody magicians_.

He didn't have cavalry either, they hadn't been able to get any horses through the Spine. Now the mountains stood at his back as waves of infantry crashed together in front of him, the ringing of steel mingling with the shouts of the men wielding it.

* * *

Kaeden gripped the shaft of his spear tightly as he thrust it into the belly of a bearded rebel in front of him. The man stopped in his tracks and dropped the axe he had been brandishing. Kaeden grimly yanked out his spear as his squad-mates fought beside him.

Another man stepped up behind the first, filling his fallen comrade's spot in the rebel line. This one carried a sword. He snarled at Kaeden and charged, swinging the sword savagely. Kaeden hurriedly raised his spear to parry the blow. The swipe glanced off the hardened ash, though the man was unfazed. His momentum carried him forward, tangling with Kaeden and sending them both sprawling to the ground.

The two soldiers grasped and clawed at each other for a few moments before Kaeden was able to draw his parrying dagger, fiercely stabbing it into the swordsman's throat. The man thrashed for a moment, then lay still, blood pouring from his wound.

Kaeden scambled to his feet, slamming his parrying dagger back into his belt and picking up his spear just in time to defend himself from yet another attack. Blood mixed with the dirt at his feet, churning into a thin layer of deep red mud.

Sunlight beamed down from the sky, creating a kind of burning halo around some of the helmed soldiers, giving them an angelic appearance in the moments before their bloody deaths. Kaeden fought on, relying on skills he had acquired through his ceaseless training with the spear and dagger since he had joined Stronghammer's army just over a year ago.

 _Block. Dodge. Parry. Thrust._

That day, those lessons were Kaeden's entire existence. The battle seemed to go on for eternity, yet at the same time seemed to last for only a second.

 _Block. Dodge. Parry. Thrust._

 _Kill._

And kill he did. Kaeden lost count of how many men died to his spear, though their faces—twisted in pain and rage at the moments of their death—stuck in his mind like pitch.

 _Block. Dodge. Parry. Thrust. Kill._

 _Kill._

 _Kill._

 _Kill._

* * *

Roran paced back and forth in front of his advisors, eyes scanning the battlefield for weaknesses to exploit. Two of the enemy magicians had fallen early, the weakest, according to the notes provided by Nasuada's cabal of pet magicians. A tract of scorched earth marked the place where one more was engaged in a battle of the minds with one of the spellcasters at Roran's command.

The two were staring at each other intently, their determined eyes the only outward manifestation of the fierce battle Roran knew they were waging on the battlefield inside their heads. Soldiers from both sides avoided that flank of the battlefield, eying the scorched bodies surrounding the pair.

The last two of the enemy's magicians were hiding behind their men, occasionally sending explosive flashes of light from behind the rebel ranks, devastating Roran's front lines. Two of Roran's own spellcasters—brother and sister—sent fireballs of their own at the rogue magicians from his same vantage point, though they appeared to be ineffective.

He stalked over to one of them.

"Any progress?" He asked gruffly. The young woman shot him an annoyed glare.

"Until we can lure them into the open, neither Rashe or I can catch them in a duel."

"If you do get the chance to duel them, you're sure you can defeat them?" She nodded to his question, then returned to her arcane weaving of the ancient language.

Roran stroked his beard, eying the enemy warriors.

"Dak!" he shouted. "Get my guard, we're going to charge." The soldier nodded, retrieving the elite group of soldiers tasked with protecting Roran's life.

"I beg your pardon sir?" Maethir asked. "You are an earl! Earls don't run haphazardly into battle!" Roran ignored him, and he had to admit it brought him no small amount of joy to do so.

Roran's guard formed up around him, faces firm and determined. He could tell many of them were itching to join the battle. They didn't like standing by while their fellow soldiers died. He knew the feeling. Drawing his famous hammer from his belt, Roran let out a blood-curdling cry as he rushed down the hill towards the battle, his men following him, letting out their own shouts.

When he reached the first enemy soldier he brought his hammer down in a crushing blow, smashing the man's helmet and skull alike. He continued forward, bellowing as he swung and smashed his way through the enemy ranks. His guard followed him, protecting his flanks and holding the ground he took.

The enemy soldiers initially pulled back in shock before surging back in greater numbers, at the angry shouts of their officers. Roran planted his feet held his ground against the onslaught. His hammer rose and fell, each time taking an enemy soldier with it. _Come on. Come on see me you bloody fools!_ Roran thought, waiting for the enemy magicians to retaliate against his offensive.

As if heeding his mental command, one of those flashes of burning light, even brighter up close, ripped into the ground to his side, missing his wards, but blinding him and sending him tumbling in the shockwave all the same.

Roran's ears were ringing, and he blinked dust out of his eyes. The explosion had torn through men of both sides, clearing a swathe of land around him.

A high-pitched screech woke him from his brief reverie. A horse approached, bearing a pale rider with a long black cloak streaming behind it sped toward him threateningly.

Before he could do anything, a young soldier with a spear seemed to fly over the ground, leaping into the air and driving his spear into the rider's side, the horse tumbling to the ground about forty feet from where Roran lay. He rose unsteadily as his guard gathered around him.

Another flash of light to the right of the battlefield signaled the end of the magician's duel on that flank, and a cheer from his soldiers confirmed it had been their man that triumphed.

The boy struggled with the pale creature on the ground, now holding a notched parrying dagger, a swordbreaker. The rider quickly drew two ghostly white knives, long enough to be shortswords, rising halfway off the ground slicked by soldier's boots before the soldier tackled it again.

Roran's other soldiers seemed too scared of the pale rider to help their comrade. With a snarl Roran began to charge at it before his guards seized his arms, holding him back. A reexamination of the situation revealed why. Behind the fallen horse and rider were the two remaining enemy magicians.

A closer look revealed that they were strained, and sweat glistened on each of their forheads. Turning around, Roran saw his own magicians, the brother and sister, with the look of dueling heavy on their faces. Roran's charge, along with the explosion, had cleft a hole through the middle of the enemy army. The rest of the fighting was relegated to the flanks, where victory seemed almost assured by now.

Another, tired looking magician stepped up beside Roran. He recognized the man as the one who had just won his duel. That determined, focused look came over his features again as he joined the arcane battle once more. One of the enemy magicians seemed to balk, a look of fear coming over his face a moment before he burst into flame at a hushed " _Brisingr_ " from the sister-magician. All three of Roran's magicians now turned their gazes on the last rogue spellcaster. No fear showed on this man's face, instead anger washed over his features. He lasted a few seconds longer than his companion, but then he too caved, and was destroyed at a phrase from one of Roran's magicians.

Now Roran looked back to the struggle with the pale rider that had tried to kill him. It appeared that the young soldier had taken a blow to the head, and was unconscious at the creature's feet, blood matting his hair and forehead. The pale creature seemed to stare at Roran before he realized something, it had no mouth, or nose, or ears. The only immediately apparent facial features it possessed were a pair of black, beady eyes. Those eyes stared into Roran's own. The creature cocked its head.

The magicians at Roran's side seemed confused at first, then began to rattle of strings of words in the ancient language—the language of magic—hurling bolts of lighting, fire, and other unseen deadly curses at the creature. The spells however seemed to have no effect on it whatsoever, running off its skin like rainwater on the slats of a roof.

Eventually, Roran's magicians stopped their spellcasting, exhausted, and dumbfounded at their ineffectiveness. Roran squinted his eyes at the creature and gripped his hammer tighter, falling into a stance. Those black eyes looked at him still, boring into his soul. Then the creature let out a keening peal of sound, despite its seemingly lack of a mouth. The noise reverberated in his head and sent him to his knees, clutching at his ears in pain. The cry had the same effect on the remaining soldiers and magicians on the battlefield, knocking many of them unconscious.

When the sound stopped, none of Roran's men remained standing, or any of the rebel men either. Those dark beady eyes washed over Roran and his army once more, then, oddly, the creature reached down and picked up the young, unconscious soldier at its feet, slinging the poor boy over its shoulder, before stalking off away from the army. Roran just lay there with the rest of his men, the painful effects of the sound rendering him helpless to stop it.

Roran didn't like being helpless.


	2. Chapter 2 -- Oaths and Memories

**Author's Note:** Ok, I published Chapter 1 with no author's note, or any other information besides the story. Thas was intentional. It allows the reader to get a feel for my writing style before they are taken out of it by extraneous interjections. Allow me to explain what's going on here. This piece of fiction (based on Christopher Paolini's _Inheritance Cycle,_ of course), will have four major viewpoint characters. Two of these characters are canon, Paolini-made creations. The other two are original, necessary parts of the narrative. These characters are Roran, Zeihel (See below), Fírnen, and Kaeden (As seen briefly last chapter). I welcome any feedback you could provide with open arms (positive and negative), and would be happy to answer any questions. All further author's notes/annotations will be at the end of the chapters. Also, I try my best, but I only have so much time and no copy editor, so if you see a spelling/grammatical error, feel free to point it out.

* * *

 **To Walk in Myth**

Chapter 2

 _Oaths and Memories_

Zeihel's eyes skirted the rebel campfire, counting soldiers. They hadn't posted any guards. It was nearly midnight and not one of them had turned in for the night either, preferring to sit by the campfire and laugh, staring right at the flames. Their night vision would be ruined. Anything outside the small ring of light provided by their fire would be lost in the inky blackness to them, which was just as well for Zeihel.

A hefty broadsword rested on his back, the burden not as heavy as the thought that he might need to use it. With a sigh, Zeihel stepped out of the shadows into the light of the campfire. It took a few seconds for the rebels to see him. When they finally did, the men shouted in alarm and grasped for their weapons. Zeihel glared at each of them in turn as they vainly prepared themselves, steel glinting in the firelight. Twelve men. He would prefer not kill anyone today, but Zeihel only really needed one alive.

"Set down your weapons. Kneel down in a line, and answer my questions." Zeihel commanded, calmly and firmly. His words seemed to have no effect on the soldiers. If anything, they seemed more prepared for battle now than before. _Why can't anybody ever just do as they're told?_ He thought to himself. _Very well._

At a word from their commander, two men began to flank Zeihel on either side, stepping carefully with weapons held ready. He stood still as they approached. Growing more confident, one of the soldiers reached out to grab him.

Big mistake.

With inhuman speed, Zeihel twisted the man's arm with one hand before bringing his elbow crashing down, snapping the bone like a twig. The man screamed in surprise and pain. Stepping to the next man without pause, Zeihel savagely struck him in the stomach. The soldier hunched over in agony. Zeiel brought a crushing fist down onto the back of the man's head, and the soldier crumpled to the ground.

Zeihel spun back around to face the remaining ten rebels. They looked at him in shock. The entire exchange had taken just a moment. The rest of the soldiers approached him with a newfound wariness, weapons forward, not bothering with trying to take him prisoner. He shattered the first one's knee, then delivered a kick to the back of his head, he took the second out with an elbow to the face, and dropped the third with a brutal punch to the throat.

Zeihel attacked with the viciousness of a wild beast and the cold efficiency of a headsman. Soldier after soldier dropped to the ground unconscious, or near it. Zeihel didn't take the time to finish any of them off. He didn't care to take their lives, it was the force they worked for that had caught his interest. Finally, only one of the rebels was left standing. He was a young soldier, trembling with fear, the halberd in his hands wavering erratically.

"Elf…" He managed to stammer through his chattering teeth. A smile almost graced Zeihel's lips. Almost.

"No, not an elf, boy." Zeihel answered. He strode toward the youth, making no effort to strike. The young rebel brandished his halberd at Zeihel again.

"Don't take another step!" He said, making his best effort to seem imposing.

"Almost brave." Zeihel said gravely. With one smooth motion, he stepped forward and yanked the weapon out of the kid's hands. He snapped the shaft over his knee and tossed the broken pieces of the weapon behind him. Surprised, the youth fell onto his backside in a rather less-than-brave looking way. His eyes were wide with fear.

Slowly, gritting his teeth, Zeihel drew the sword on his back. The blade was inky black and impossibly smooth. The hilt was simple and unadorned, utilitarian. The weapon was heavy in his hand, the blade too large and dense for any human to wield effectively unaided. Zeihel held it up to the soldier's neck, the keen edge less than an inch from his throat. Even as he withdrew it from the scabbard, the sword aggravated old wounds, pricking his heart with a dark spike of grief, dread, and most of all, shame.

"This blade isn't meant for you boy," Zeihel growled menacingly. His words didn't seem to have much of a calming effect on the youth, "but you can help me find the one it is meant for. All you need to do is answer a few of my questions." The young rebel gulped. Zeihel continued. "Tell me, do you deal with monsters?" The boy's face went white. "Pale skin, thin limbs with a face completely smooth except for the eye sockets?" Questioned Zeihel. The youth's eyes widened in recognition and he nodded furiously. "Tell me, which one of you talked to them?"

"No one here sir." The young rebel managed to croak out.

"Who does then?"

"Nathis."

"Who's Nathis?"

"A magician." The soldier said. Now that he'd started talking it was coming easier. "He stays at camp and talks with those… things. He said that they would help us, that they wouldn't let us lose. But then why…?"

"Why didn't they come and stop me?" Zeihel asked. The boy nodded. This time a mirthless grin did appear on his face, curling his mouth into a terrifying smile. "Those things don't care about you. I could slaughter a thousand of you in your beds and if you weren't doing anything they cared about, not a single one of them would bat an eye. None of the Inarë will save you from me, even if they could." If it were possible, the rebel looked even more scared. "Last question. Where is this 'base-camp?'"

"We're not supposed to sa—"

"Tell me!" Zeihel roared, raising his voice, eyes darkening. The soldier looked as if he were about to soil his trousers.

"It's at Marna! At the foot of the mountain on the Eastern side!" The rebel exclaimed.

Finally, Zeihel pulled back his sword, sliding it back into its sheath. The pain clawing at his soul subsided. The young soldier let out an exhausted breath, his brow glistening with sweat. "When you wake up," Zeihel said, "leave this place, go find work on a farm someplace, or become a sailor. This is not the life for you."

"What do you mean 'when I wake up?'" The boy asked. Zeihel slammed his fist into the kid's jaw, knocking him out cold.

With the last man unconscious, a small orb of blue light floated out from its hiding place behind the shadowed trees. Zeihel strode to the place the rebels had tied their horses as the spirit drifted beside his shoulder. It circled the hilt of the sword on Zeihel's back a few times, emitting a faint buzzing sound that somehow managed to sound angry.

"I know you don't like it. I don't either." Zeihel responded. As he reached the horses, the orb shot in front of his face and hovered there, buzzing louder this this time.

"I'm not going to just ignore this. Last time was bad enough, this could be worse." He brushed the spirit aside, and it hovered over his shoulder, now silent. Zeihel began digging through the piles of clothes and supplies in the saddlebags. Fools. They hadn't even unsaddled their horses. Even the slowest farmboy knew better than that. The spirit darted forward, taking the shape of a small translucent spear, rotating in the air in front of him. "Yes, we may need to get involved in a war. It's been a while, but this isn't our first time. Remember?" The spirit buzzed again, morphing into the shape of a minuscule floating dragon. Zeihel moved on to the next horse, checking its bags as well. "The Dragon Riders are too weak. Too few. They can't help." The spirit buzzed in disagreement, then formed the image of a thorn, shifting into a sword, and then back again. Zeihel grabbed a bundle of papers from the bottom of the bag, protected from the elements in an oilskin wrap. "No, not even them." He said, unwrapping them. The spirit buzzed, fading back into a cobalt orb before flitting behind him again.

Zeihel shuffled through the papers. One caught his eye. A letter. His eyes scanned the page quickly. He folded up the letter and placed it into one of the few pouches on his coat. "Let's go." He said.

He'd made it a full league from the campsite before stopping in his tracks, muscles tensing. The blue spirit shot off into the trees, hiding. "You can come out now _Angela._ " He said, enunciating the name in a mocking tone. A petite woman with a head full of thick brown curls stepped out of the brush behind him, her mouth in a pout.

"You weren't supposed to notice me yet."

"Cut the games. What are you doing here?" Zeihel responded.

"You haven't been this active in decades Zye! I don't think you've even seen a city in at least a hundred years." Angela responded.

"Don't call me that. And not everyone can prance around terrorizing werecats and pretending to make love potions." Angela frowned.

"No, but for how much you despised Galbatorix, I would have thought you would have at least given the Varden some cursory support."

"Not all of us abandon our oaths so easily Angela." That provoked a spark of anger in her eyes.

"You of all people should know better than that Zye. I could have done much more for the Varden than I did, if not for my respect for those oaths. You weren't there to see those men and women die! Had you been, you would have gone farther than I have, mark my words." Zeihel nodded.

"And that is why I stayed away. My decision," He touched the hilt of the sword on his back, "did not come without pains." Angela's eyes widened, seeing the sword for the first time.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes."

"Then the oaths held you tighter than I thought…" Angela muttered. Zeihel turned back to his path and continued on his way. Soon enough Angela walked at his side, a werecat trailing by her heels. Zeihel stayed silent. They walked that way for a while, in silence. Zeihel occasionally caught a glimpse of the blue orb flitting through the trees.

"Tell me Zye," Angela began, "what _is_ your plan. You've attacked three companies of rebels, and even two of Nasuada's scouting parties. Some would say you are behaving somewhat erratic." Zeihel snorted.

"Inarë, in Alegaësia. I intend to find out what they're doing."

"By interrogating common soldiers?" Angela asked mockingly.

"Not all of us can count royalty among our close friends Angela. You still go by that name, right?"

"Yes, I still use that name. Such a hassle to change it. I'd have to wait for everyone I know to die before I could go out in public again. And some of my friends are quite long lived." Zeihel snorted derisively. Angela frowned at him. "I do still count you among those friends Zye."

The brush was thinning, trees growing more and more sparse as the land flattened out into the plains that would eventually take him to Gil'ead, and eventually Marna. A few minutes passed as they walked in silence. The blue spirit followed them out of the forest. Seeing it, Angela grinned, tracking its motions with her eyes. "We aren't the only two left you know. Tenga's still around." Angela said. Zeihel grunted.

"The old fool's still kicking eh?" He replied. She raised an eyebrow.

"You would do well to learn from him, he has more experience than both of us together. He's killed almost as many Inarë as you." She said. Zeihel scoffed.

"The only thing he could teach me how to do is spit on the promises I've already broken." Angela scowled at him and stopped walking. Zeihel kept his pace.

"Fine. Go on then. Dwell on the oaths. Live in the past _Zeihel._ Just know there are a few of us waiting for you here when you wake up." She called after him. Zeihel continued into the night, his shaggy black hair blowing in the wind. The pale light from the spirit tagging along beside him cast a blue patina over his features, doing nothing to soften his deadly visage as he stalked across the plains.

* * *

Annotations:

You may notice Angela acts a little different around Zeihel than she does in the books. This is the difference in how you talk to an old friend, and how you act around a group of small children.

A lot of talk about broken oaths, I hope it wasn't too blatant. You'll learn more about these later. I chose to take this approach over some pretty heavy exposition.


End file.
